


Not Quite Happiness (Just Love)

by hannibalsketches



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Getting Together, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut, it takes them forever I'm sorry, literally this universe is very big
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3725740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannibalsketches/pseuds/hannibalsketches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Suddenly, a warm baby is pushed into his arms, his own. She is beautiful, and it ruins him. His tears pelt her face, and she wails in discomfort. The young doctor-- Lindir, takes her from him, and he’s grateful. He remembers his other two, and asks to retrieve them. </p>
<p>As he re-enters the waiting room, he looks for the stranger, but he’s already gone.</p>
<p>~~~~~~~~~~</p>
<p>Modern AU where Bard and Thranduil meet at the worst possible moments in their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite Happiness (Just Love)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Barduil Big Bang 2015
> 
> This has been one bumpy ride! I remember being very skeptical about even doing this at first, but nearly two months later and here it is! I am so so proud of it, and i honestly couldn't have accomplished it without my wonderful web of supporters! Thanks to you all, for keeping me going. Thanks to my wonderful beta, [Sharkseye](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharkseye/pseuds/Sharkseye) who is probably the best I've had EVER. Also, a big thanks to my artist, [littleredrainboots](http://littleredrainboots.tumblr.com/)!!!
> 
> Enjoy!

 

The pale white of the linoleum floors does little to quell the imagination of Bard’s four year old, Bain. He screams and cries with boredom, beating his little fists on the tile, demanding for some form of entertainment. Bard sighs. Harsh stares stab at him from all directions as he picks his son up. They’ve only been in the waiting room for fifteen minutes, an unwelcome change of venue from the coziness in the maternity ward. Without warning, his wife had gone head first into labor. He wasn’t surprised that she’d been transferred, labor was always harsh on her small body, narrow hips. They expected this next one to require a cesarean. She flew by them on a stretcher, only managing a slight caress to Bard’s thumb. He was worried, yes, but Bard kept willing himself not to be. His wife was strong, stronger than him, and she could bounce back from anything.  

With Bain finally subdued on Bard’s bouncing knee, and Sigrid off in search of a vending machine, he looks around the ICU waiting room, familiarizing himself. It was likely they’d be here awhile.

Just across from him is a rather ugly looking man, scowling at the sudden presence of children. Close by is a family of four, all between the ages 30 and 60. They sleep on one another, holding hands, perhaps dreaming that the person they’re there for is well. Aside the area Bard is in is a conjoining room, holding only one person. He has to crane his head to get a better look.

The man is unnatural in the environment, his pale blond hair glows with the light from outside. His skin is opaque, nearly white as marble. His clothes are dark and consuming, but Bard cannot see his face. It’s hidden beneath a tense arm, bent on the side of the uncomfortable chair.

“Da?”

He’s drawn from his study by his daughter, Sigrid, back from her quest. She’s only ten, but already breathes a higher air than the rest. Her mind is maturing fast, but she’s very goofy. She looks just like her mother, plain, pretty face, but the spark of something remarkable in the curve of her lip, the jut of her jaw.

“Yes, darling?”

“Could I have a dollar, or two?”

“I take it you’ve found the machines?”

She nods with a smile, pigtail braids thumping against her chest. He smiles in return.

“Bain, would you like anything?”

The tiny boy looks up at him with wide eyes, hands in his mouth. Bard pulls them out gently.

“Chocolate.” His pronunciation is a little off, but improving. Bain didn’t speak many words.

Bard chuckles, pulling out his wallet, and handing three dollars to Sigrid.

“Hurry back.”

“Thanks Da!”

“T’anks, Da.” Bain mimics, putting his finger back to his mouth.

Suddenly, a doctor busts through the doors. Her hair is very long, and a straw yellow. She would be stunning, if not for the grievous look on her face. Wordlessly, she goes to the adjoining room, to the unusual man. Bard watches carefully as she places a delicate hand on the mans shoulder, leaning in to whisper something in his ear. The man’s back goes rigid, and he stands, turning to face the exit, right where Bard sits. As the woman passes, she gives a ghost of a smile at Bain, but it fades alarmingly quickly. When the man passes, Bard cannot help but glance up. The strangers face is very long, and very striking. His nose is sharp, eyes a frosty blue. His eyebrows are dark, and his lips pressed down into a thin line. He pays Bard no attention.

When the two exit, their voices rise, and Bard listens with growing interest.

“I’m so sorry...there’s nothing more we can do.” The doctor speaks as if the person gone was a relative.

The scream that follows visibly jars all in the waiting room. It’s horrible, full of pain and sorrow so emotional it consumes the entire hospital. The secondhand pity is so intense it nearly makes Bard sick. The family nearby has woken up, and their tears are genuine. Even the ugly man even seems to shift with worry in his seat.

Bard grips Bain tighter.

A long silence falls over the room then. He can hear the useless comfort of the doctor, the sobs of the man, body wrenching in their passion. Bard swears the word ‘No’ is repeated over and over. Sigrid returns, clutching her treasures with a sadness Bard hates to see, but has little control over. Sigrid was always very sensitive to others. She resumes her place, handing her naive brother his Hersheys bar. Bard wraps an arm around her. They were still at a hospital, and death still happened.

~

Forty minutes pass by before the man renters, and majority of those in the waiting room have cleared out. Bard and his children remain, the last news heard only confirmed their suspicions; she would need a cesarean. He watches the clock in anticipation. Any minute, his third child would be born. He almost banishes the sad thoughts of the man.

Almost.

The man enters in an icy chill, resuming his place, and holding his head in anguish. No one is there to comfort him. Bard’s heart lurches at the thought.

**  
**

“He’s so sad, Da…isn’t there anything I can do?” Sigrid has big tears in her eyes.

“I don’t think so sweetie…” Bard knew he was being a bit harsh, but people at the hospital could be very unpredictable, and didn’t want his daughter exposed to it. However, the pathetic sounding sob that echoes across the small space, originating from the man, pulls hard at his heart.

“Here, hold your brother, Sigrid.” He hands the slumbering bundle over, then rises.

Without much thought other than compassion, he walks over to the adjoining room, approaching the stranger. He sits beside him without any introduction and dares to put a warm hand on his shoulder. The man tenses, but does not rise.

“I am sorry you are alone at a time like this. Is there anyone you need to call?”

Slightly, the man shakes his head, but quickly unleashes another onset of tears. Bard absent mindedly rubs the strangers back. Eventually, he wears himself out again, and speaks, with a rough croak that Bard has to strain to hear.

“I lost my wife.”

Bard cringes rather suddenly, the bad thoughts of the nature of his family's stay in ICU rearing their ugly head. He cannot imagine losing his wife, not anytime in the future. He always assumed he’d be the first to go. He seems to curl around the stranger.

“I’m so sorry.”

They’re in a makeshift embrace when another doctor, younger than the woman, emerges. His hair is pulled back, a deep black that contrasts with his white coat.

“Mr. Bargeman?”

A smile momentarily flits across Bard’s face, and he rises, patting the mourning man one last time. He tells Sigrid to stay put, and follows the doctor into the ward. He starts spewing off information, but Bard doesn’t listen, too enraptured with thoughts of welcoming a boy or girl into the world.

“We’re terribly sorry.”

The sentence rips Bard from his reverie.

“Sorry?”

The younger man nods, swallowing, then clearing his throat.

“Yes sir. There were too many complications, and she….”

All at once, his perfect world comes to a screeching halt. His heart thumps painfully, his fingers tingle. He sweats, he’s sure. A wave of shudders passes through his body. He crinkles his brow in anguish, grabbing the railing on the wall for support. The tears come at once, and suddenly he cannot see. Suddenly, everything hurts and there’s not a thing he can do about it.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to his flower, his strong wife. She could handle it, she would always bounce back.

Wouldn’t she?

“The baby….is it?”

“She’s fine, sir. In perfect health.”

Bard wants to laugh in the doctor's face. How could it be perfect, when she was now motherless? She would never learn to love the way her mother laughed, the way she lit up when speaking or playing with her children. The child would never know the closeness a mother could offer. Sobs shatter his posture, and he falls. What would it do to Sigrid? Bain?

What was it doing to him?

He’s numbly aware of being helped up, by the woman from before. She gives him the same look she gave the stranger, and he wants to scream. She didn’t understand the grief, and never would. He doubted anyone could. The woman speaks, her voice golden like honey.

“Lindir, get the stretcher.”

He’s sat down, and after a while, manages to cry himself dry. Suddenly, a warm baby is pushed into his arms, his own. She is beautiful, and it ruins him. His tears pelt her face, and she wails in discomfort. The young doctor-- Lindir, takes her from him, and he’s grateful. He remembers his other two, and asks to retrieve them. The woman nods with a forced smile.

As he re-enters the waiting room, he looks for the stranger, but he’s already gone.

______________________________________

_Eight years later_

The time since that moment seemed very distant to Bard now. He had a time to grieve, and rightfully did so, but the pain still lingered. It came in shocks, and nearly crippled him from functioning, but he had perfected the art of accepting it and moving on. His wife was long gone, and he had to keep going, for his children. The child born, Tilda, was eight. Sigrid started college in a year, and Bain was close to high school. He hadn’t thought about himself in a very long time.

With school starting up again, Bard was thrust into a meet-and-greet with the other parents on orientation day.  He wasn’t a social person, but knew first impressions could be valuable. Besides, he knew most of the parents there and they liked him well enough.

As soon as he enters the building, he’s thrust into conversation with the well-liked biology teacher, Mr. Aiwendil, Coach Beorn, and the school’s principal, Mr. Olórin. He can’t really follow them, but nods politely and speaks in agreement. They disband, but Bard is willed to stay behind.

“Do you need something, Mr. Olórin?”

When Bard’s family first moved to the small town of Dale, things were hard. They knew no one, and Bard was wary of them fitting in at such a prestigious school like Gondor Academy. Thankfully, their kindhearted principal erased his worries. Mr. Olórin was wise, and extremely kind to everyone. He was very old, but still had the spark of youth in his eyes.

Mr. Olórin chuckles slightly as he pulls Bard away from the crowd.

“My dear fellow, I recall instructing you to call me Gandalf many times over.”

Bard laughs slightly, shaking his head. “Alright then, Gandalf it is. What can I do for you?”

The elder man goes slightly serious, looming over Bard with his full height.

“I’m in knowledge of a group you might be very interested in, for widowers like yourself. I know I'm being…. a bit forward, but I do believe it would be very good for you to go.”

Bard’s jaw goes a bit slack at this. He’s not too surprised by the bluntness, though. Gandalf had a history of making people do things, but honestly meant well. The man loved to dip his fingers into everyone’s business. However, at the notion of going to a meeting, Bard inwardly cringes.

“Mr-- Gandalf, you know I’m no good at any kind of social event.”

“Which is one of the things the group strives to fix!”

He wants to remind Gandalf that he isn’t good at communication with people to begin with, but holds his tongue. What could it hurt? He was grateful for the love his children gave, the challenge of running his own business, and the friendship of his business partner, but he was still terribly lonely. Maybe the group could help him nurse the hole in his soul.

“When do they meet?”

Gandalf laughs, clapping Bard rather roughly on the shoulder.

“Tuesdays and Thursdays, at the recreational center in town. My friend Elrond runs the meetings, along with a distant relative.”

Bard smiles reluctantly. Gandalf is drawn from Bard’s attention by Mr. Curumo, the vice principal. He’s in another one of his sour moods, if the deep scowl of his brow is anything to go by.

“It’s time to talk to all of the parents, Gandalf.”

“Very well, Saruman.” He takes a few steps away, but turns to Bard one last time.

“Promise me you’ll at least attend one meeting, my friend.”

“I promise.” He raises his hand, urging the credibility of his words.

The rest of the night goes by in a blur.

~

As he prepares his kids for school on Tuesday, Bard’s stomach is a fit of nerves. He had never done anything akin to the meeting before and was having second thoughts. Sigrid, always the mature child, notices his turmoil as she’s braiding her sister’s hair.

“Da, are you alright?”

He smiles, but it’s obviously forced.

“Yes, darling.”

She quirks her brow, and in the moment looks so much like her mother he has to turn away. What would she say about him getting help?

“Do you have any plans for the day?”

He avoids the question as long as possible, giving little Tilda enough time to leave the room to get her backpack. Bard sighs when he sees Sigrid waiting impatiently for an answer.

“Well?”

“I have a...meeting. For people like me.”

“Just a meeting?”

“Not exactly,” He downs the last bit of his coffee before finishing. “It’s a support group.I’m joining today.”

“Is it a group for widowers?”

He can only nod.

“Oh, Da, this is wonderful!” Sigrid wraps her arms around his neck in a happy embrace. He hugs back, surprised at the showing of affection. Sigrid wasn’t the type to do so, she had lost most of her old loving nature when her mother passed. Tears are in her eyes as she pulls away.

“Ma would be happy.”

The comment hits him rather hard. He starts to cry with Sigrid as well, and pulls his daughter closer. He could do this, for himself.

~

As the rec center comes into view, the nerves return with a large force and show no signs of retreating.  Bard drops his keys four times, and nearly trips twice. Anxiety shakes his hands so fiercely he can barely get the door open properly. Each step feels like a heavy burden.

The sign outside the room is ironically cheerful, making him feel more and more out of place. Inside is a rather intimidating looking group, but he manages to slip under the radar. He notices Coach Beorn, his impressive mane of hair hard to miss. As the class starts, he sees another familiar man and nearly falls with shock. It was someone he hadn’t seen in eight years, someone he figured lived off on his own, that would never come to a meeting like this.

The man from the hospital.

He doesn’t wear the same signs of age like Bard does, and looks as unnatural as before. Only now, he seems to be happier, a bit more relaxed amongst friends, which is a relief. The scream of pain still haunts Bard’s mind, but it seems he’s better.

Bard supposes he’s the odd man out this time.

The lesson goes underway, with a warm greeting from a man Bard assumes is Elrond. It’s addressing the topic of grieving. He tries to pay attention, but his eyes seem to trail the man from his past, unbelieving that it was the same man. He smiles lightly throughout, eyes flickering to each person as they speak, instead of tears are laughter, and Bard decides he’s much more comfortable hearing the latter. Elrond opens the floor to whoever wants to speak.

One person, a rather gruff looking woman with dark straight hair, takes up the offer, standing and speaking rather happily about her two boys, one near Sigrid’s age, and the other closer to Bain. She beams with a pride that visibly lightens the mood of everyone. After she finishes, Elrond speaks.

“I see that we have a new face joining us this week. Mr. Bargeman, would you like to speak?”

Bard freezes, but has no other choice than to stand. He curses Gandalf, but loses track of it when all eyes fall on him, including the man from the hospital. He foolishly has a hope of the man not recognizing him, before realizing that the man didn’t even _know_ him. He swallows a lump at the back of his throat, and begins.

“H-hello. I’m Bard.”

A chorus of ‘ _Hello, Bard_ ’ answers him, but the only voice he picks up on is the same one that brokenly told him of a dead spouse.

“I lost my wife eight years ago. She died in childbirth.”

Sympathetic sounds follow.

“I suppose I’m ah-- here to maybe make it easier? I have three wonderful kids, but there’s a hole in my life that I don’t know how to fill.”

Elrond stands, with another warm smile. “That is why we are here, friend. Welcome.”

The group echoes the greeting, all coming forth with smiles and the occasional hug. Bard feels no nerves, but notices the stranger is already gone. He leaves to his truck slightly puzzled.

~

He parks outside of Gondor Academy with minutes to spare. The lot is already packed with other parents, but he’s lucky to find a rather close spot. Bard glances around hurriedly as the bell rings, signalling the end of school, and he sees the man from before. His car is luxurious, a beauty that Bard would never be able to afford in his wildest dreams. His gaze lingers on the man though, still slightly in awe of the sheer luck of seeing him again.

His children approach the truck, and he unlocks the doors, stealing one last glimpse at the strangers car, a little blond boy entering it now.

“Da! I made an A on my paper!” Tilda shoves her latest grade in his face, beaming wide.

“Very good!”

“Can we put it on the fridge?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

“Da!” He has to turn to look at Bain.

“Yes, son?”

“There’s a new boy in my class, and he likes archery too! Can he come over and play sometime?”

Bard chuckles, and starts the car.

“We’ll see, Bain.” He glances over at his oldest, glancing out the window rather wistfully, lost in her own thoughts.

“Any exciting news, Sigrid?”

She shrugs, rather put off about something, but Bard knows better than to ask what. Sigrid seemed especially cross, which meant it could only be about a boy. Even more reason for him to stay uninvolved.

~

Later, after dinner has been devoured and the little ones put to sleep, Bard and his eldest clean up.

“How did your meeting go, Da?”

“Surprisingly well.”

She glances up at him, a grin lighting up her face, before resuming her task of scrubbing baked mac and cheese off a dish. He is almost reluctant to tell her of the man, but decides he wouldn’t keep the truth from her.

“Sigrid, you might’ve been too young, but do you remember the sad man at the hospital, when your mother...passed?”

He hates bringing it up again, knowing how hard it was on her. It takes her a few moments of thought, but she answers, in a whisper.

“Yes.”

“I saw him there, at the meeting.”

This information immediately brightens her mood.

“Really? Did you talk to him? Did he remember you?”

Bard laughs. “No and no. Didn’t get a chance to.”

Sigrid whacks him with a wet hand on the shoulder. “Talk to him! Are you going back?”

“Yes, I think I am.”

___________________________

Bard’s business was a small one, a simple bait and tackle shop only a mile down the road from his house, but it managed to hold its own. People told him they trusted him more than the too large department stores, and were confident his lures and baits were the best in town. Bard wasn’t a conceited man, but the praise certainly boosted his confidence from time to time. He co-owned it with a childhood friend, lost while he and his family moved to Laketown and only recently found again. After his wife’s death, Bard had needed to move the children someplace familiar, somewhere he didn’t see her at every corner. Dale was it, and Aragorn had welcomed him back with the same gruff but well meant greeting.

The schedule was simple. Bard worked Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, while Aragorn took Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. The shop was closed on Sundays. Bait and tackle wasn’t the only thing the shop boasted either, they had a very impressive target course for those hoping to better their skills with guns, or Bard’s favorite, bow and arrow. It wasn’t a very popular hunting weapon, but he loved the primal grit of it, the hard pullback of the string, the force whizzing through his body as the arrow shot. It was this moment that made him feel more alive than anything, like he was unstoppable. Aragorn often told him he felt the same about a sword.

As Bard stands behind the service desk his fingers itch for his longbow. Business goes rather slow, his only real customer being a regular there, Glóin.  He seemed enraptured by an expensive axe on display, had been for weeks. Today, with a hefty 260 quid in his pocket, he bought it, explaining rather boastfully that it was for his son’s birthday. Bard was a little surprised at first (Gimli was only fourteen, and often roughhoused with Bain), but was quick to remember that Glóin himself had been in two battles. The Durinson family was very prestigious with weapons, or so he had been informed by Aragorn.

When Glóin was gone, the shop became deserted, so Bard swiftly locked up for the day, grabbing his weapon and heading out to the ranges.

The land they were on was vast, filled with a thick wood that went from his house, all the way to the other side of town. Greenwood forest housed many things ranging from animals to beautiful flowers.

Wildlife was sacred to the people of Dale, which was one reason why Bard loved it there as a kid. Now, with the light autumn breeze filling his lungs, he feels his worries fade. Reaching back to his quiver, he pulls out an arrow, and shoots. Target after target is shot, until he’s at the end of the course, deep into the woods.

There was an old folklore about the forest, that it hid mystical beings that could not die, and wizards that would grant wishes. As a child, he was entranced, and as an adult, humbled. Bard pulls his bow back over his shoulder, and dares to wander deeper. True, Greenwood was it’s actual name, but the children here knew it by a different one.

Mirkwood.

It certainly fits the name, with it’s big, swooping branches, twisting and curling into dark masses. The foliage on the ground is a bright emerald, thick and lush. Birds call overhead.

Suddenly, a crunch of twigs bring his attention to a spot a little ways off. With a gasp, he looks upon a stag, white and unnerving in the space. It demands respect in its elegant but dangerous stance, even in the slight tilt of its head. It’s eyes are a startling black, wide and soul searching.

He’s oddly reminded of the man from the hospital.

Bard tries to get closer, but his movement startles the creature, and it darts off in a graceful prance.

He looks up to the sky, noticing now how much time had caught up with him. The sun is setting and painting the clouds with bright purple contours. The kids were likely home from school. He journeys back into the shop, pulling his arrows out of the targets and tucking them away in his quiver.  As he climbs into his truck, Bard reminds himself of the date and with a dawning shock realizes that his next meeting is tomorrow. He remembers his promise to Sigrid and suddenly feels very giddy.

~

The next day, Bard cleans the house. It takes a good portion of his free time away, which he’s grateful for.

Less time to wait for the meeting to start.

4:00 rolls along very quickly, and then he’s pulling on a flannel and throwing his hair in a bun, leaving for the confines of his trusty truck. As it sputters down the road, he’s thrown back into a bowl of nerves. Would the stranger dismiss him as a poor man? Would he even _be_ there?

He pulls into the parking lot of the rec center and races to the door of the room. ‘A quick glance in shows it’s alarmingly empty. Bard panics internally, was the meeting already over?

“Hello, Bard! It seems you’re a bit early. Class doesn’t start for another ten minutes.”

He grins in greeting at Elrond, and shakes the man’s hand. He leads them to the refreshment table, and Bard thankfully grabs a bottle of water. Elrond speaks again, only not to him.

“I was wondering when you were going to show up!”

Bard turns in curiosity, shell shocked to see _the_ man. He’s in a grey sweater, a cream scarf thrown around his neck, his hair falling to his hips. Bard sees no harm in daring to call him attractive. He catches the stranger’s eye, and feels a flush spread across his cheeks.

The floodgates are opened by that, it seems. Familiar faces from Tuesday fill the room. He manages to hold a decent conversation with Dis, the woman with two children, and discovers that her youngest was Kili, another of Bain’s usual playmates. The other was Fili, a boy he had heard Sigrid speak of a few times. Elrond signals the start of the session, and they all settle down. Today’s lesson was on moving on after a spouse's death.

Bard had considered this many times before, but lacked the social skills to ever really meet anyone. Some of the group has taken up this step, but he notes the man does not speak up. The rest of the lesson goes by in a blur, but still his eyes look to the stranger and on more than one occasion he is caught, only serving to make his embarrassment skyrocket.

As soon as the class is over, Bard bolts, rushing to get to his truck under the guise of his children. He doubts anyone believes him, all the children of Dale go to Gondor Academy, but they say nothing. Bard curses as he gets to his vehicle, realizing he left his keys inside.

He waits until the others leave, and heads back in.

Luck isn’t on his side. The only person left is the one he avoided. He is however, preoccupied with packing up the food, and has his back turned. Bard tries to be swift, but only manages a rather dramatic collision with a metal chair. Its loud scrape makes him and the stranger jump.

“Oh! Hello...Bard, is it?”

He nods, face burning red.

“Forget something?”

Bard nearly responds, but only shakes his head again. He quickly darts to his seat, picking up his keys, ready to make a hasty retreat. The man turns his back again. He feels a tad guilty, and rude, barging in, not saying a word. He was just a man. It’s obvious he doesn’t remember Bard at all. Bard is acting foolish.

He marches over to the man, drawing his attention once more. The stranger speaks.

“Do you need something else?”

Upon having those icy blue eyes on him, he regrets his decision immediately. What was so bad about being foolish?

“No, um...I just wanted to say hello? We haven’t talked since I joined.”

The man laughs, eyes brightening, and it tugs something in Bard’s chest. He’s happy he’s the cause of merriment, but is too mortified at his own blundering to revel in it.

“You’ve only been a member one day!”

If he were sure it wouldn’t offend this man, Bard would off himself there. He slumps his shoulders a bit in defeat, but is surprised to see the man’s hand sticking out in greeting.

“I’m Thranduil. Pleased to meet you.”

_____________________________________

The rest of the week seems to fly by, but also seems brighter, though Bard would politely deny any correlation  with the civil conversation.He felt pounds lighter, as if nothing could really worry him. He had even agreed to cook his kids a very complicated meal: stir fry. Sure, the dish required constant attention, but he could afford to let them eat something besides cereal or fast food.  It wasn’t that he was normally a bad cook; he just didn’t have much time anymore. Besides, he figured Sigrid could use a little cheering up after getting out of school in a state of disarray.

In all honesty, Bard never had an inkling to his eldest’s inner turmoils. She kept everyone away, and barely spoke of her true feelings. Still, he didn’t need a degree in psychology to tell that she’d been crying. Her beautiful hazel eyes were bloodshot, and at his prodding, she squeezed them shut, trying to will away the tears. He had then decided to drop it, but her brother had other ideas.

“What did Fili say? I’ll tell Kili to tell on him!”

“It isn’t Fili! Mind your own business !” She snaps at him. Although the boy meant it in good humor, Sigrid was simply not in a joking mood.

Bard had been completely oblivious.

“What’s this with Fili?”

Sigrid had refused to look at him after that, but Bain kept up his banter.

“Sigrid has a crush on him, Da! And he likes her too!”

“He doesn’t like me, Bain!” Sigrid turned with a huff, reclining in the passenger seat. “He’s too interested in those other girls.”

Bard wanted to say something but knew better. She was just like her mother when angry, extremely stubborn. Bain almost continued, but Bard stopped him with a stern glance.

When they arrived home Sigrid walked to the backyard and Tilda was quick to follow her. Bain slinked behind, slowly going outside as well. While they played, Bard prepared dinner.

The hums of the radio changing to another tune reminds Bard to check on the simmering vegetables.

The loud crash of the back door draws him from his dazed off bliss. It’s Sigrid herself, panic widening her eyes.

“Da, we can’t find Tilda!”

~

The grass licking at his heels seems to catch fire under his speed. Bard races around the property five times, calling out frantically for his little one, hopeful she was just playing a game of hide and seek. He has no such luck. The only place left to look is the forest, full of unforgiving wildlife that chills his bones to think about. He swiftly urges his other two inside, and grabs his longbow before going into the thicket.

This time around, the wood seems darker. He’s on high alert, turning swiftly at any disturbance. His bow is drawn as the leaves crunch behind him. The white deer lies at the other side of his arrow. It is not skittish this time, and walks past him with confidence, its antlers seemingly bigger than their last encounter. He only draws back his weapon, watching with a heightened fear as the creature brushes past. It goes into a leap, and dashes forward. Bard feels he has to follow it.

The soft glow of sunset is his only light, and he nearly gets lost along the way. The stag goes too fast, and vanishes. He heaves, nearly collapsing on the spot.

A scream brings him on his feet again.

He steps lightly now, careful of every branch blocking his path. The noise is child-like, innocent and alarming. Tilda squeals again, but he’s already near, and makes an entrance to try to scare off whatever was harming her.

The clearing is wide, and looks to Bard like something out of a Disney movie, a place his daughter would no doubt love. Sure enough, she is there, rolling in the chartreuse grass, being entertained by a small boy.

Bard visibly sighs with relief. They pay him no notice. The other child seems about Bain’s age, maybe older. His long blonde hair shimmers in the orange light, and his face has an impish quality to it. He hears Bard first, and turns with wide blue eyes that Bard swears he has seen before.

“Da!”

His little girl launches herself into his arms, and he catches her. Her hair is braided, and face green from the grass. She giggles continuously, babbling about her adventure. The boy stands off to the side, interested in picking clovers.

“Oh!”

Tilda tugs at his arms until he releases her, and she bounds off to the boy, pulling his arm to face Bard.

“This is Legless! He took me here, and told me about faeries!”

The boy is old enough to know he’s busted, and blushes furiously. He tries to deter the conversation.

“Tilda, my name is not Legless. It’s Legolas.”

She doesn’t seem to listen, instead walks around, collecting flowers growing by the tree trunks. Bard kneels down.

“Where are your parents, little one?”

Legolas tugs at the hems of his jade coat. He raises a dirt sodden finger, pointing in some obscure direction. Bard sighs.

“Come on, Tilda. We need to take Legolas home.”

“But Da! He said he lived in the _trees_. He’s an elf!”

Bard rolls his eyes, chuckling at the daggers the boy was sending his daughter. He scoops Tilda up, and follows Legolas.

~

What Legolas leads him to is not exactly what he imagined. The way the boy talked, of flowers and animals, and of his love for archery (he was gawking at Bard’s longbow), he figured the child lived in a small wooden cabin, with a long haired hippy mother straight out of the sixties. Instead, his home is three stories, with a distinct modern flair. He doesn’t have a mother, only a father that, while having long hair, is no flower child. Bard nearly stops with recognition.

Thranduil.

His shock is echoed on the man’s face. He gives a bright smile before turning to his son.

“Legolas! What have I told you about wandering too far into the wood? You could have put yourself and Mr. Bargeman’s daughter in danger!”

The child’s face is drawn tight in a pout. He mumbles an apology, which Bard accepts. Tilda is wriggling in his arms again, and he lowers her down. She runs around Legolas, chasing him, yelling at him for lying. It brings a laugh out of both fathers. Bard quickly recites all that had happened.

“Although the circumstances are a bit bad, I’m happy to see you again, Mr. Bargeman.”

Bard grins and nods, a light blush dusting his cheeks. His heart is hammering in his chest. His hands shake at his sides.

He shrugs. “No harm done. Kids will be kids. I’m just glad they’re ok.”

Thranduil seems to just notice Bard is armed, and his eyes twinkle in curiosity.

“Did you run into any trouble?”

He shakes his head, looking down.

“Ah, no. Just a precaution. The only thing I found was a white deer, harmless.”

The man seems to have a note of recognition on his face, but it dissipates as Legolas stumbles between them, out of breath.

“Ada, what are we having for dinner?”

Thranduil chuckles.

“Chicken wraps, dear. Why don’t you go inside and get washed up?”

The little terror runs in a sprint into the house. The sun is just setting, and the great trees on Thranduil's property turn darker. Bard picks up his daughter once more. The other man has what Bard thinks is nervousness on his face.

“Would you like to come in, have some tea?”

Bard wants to, _badly_. He almost says yes before a restless Tilda reminds him of the purpose of his quest.

“I’m sorry, but I really need to get her home. I have my own children to feed.”

Thranduil nods.

“Of course, I completely understand.”

He walks a few steps away, but thinks better, turning around to Bard.

“Perhaps….another time?”

Bard steps closer with a smile. He notices the nervous twitch in the others hand, but says nothing. He’s surprised his knees aren’t turning to jelly.

“Yes, I’d like that.”

A splotch of pink dances across Thranduil’s nose, and Bard’s heart practically soars at the knowledge that he caused it. The men are spared an awkward goodbye by Tilda, who thrusts a magenta flower at Thranduil. He practically glows at the gift, taking it and sticking it behind his ear.

“Until Tuesday, Mr. Bargeman.”

Thranduil practically floats across his lawn, and glides into his home. Bard wills himself to look away, cheeks burning. As he crosses the forest, he nearly drops his dozy child as he recalls the promise of a next time.

He can't wait.

____________________________________

Tuesday comes, and with it an attack of nerves. Dates were certainly a thing Bard never saw himself doing again, and he was a bit rusty. He almost doesn’t go, but is berated by Sigrid. He asks Aragorn to pick up the kids and the other agrees, silently asking just what was keeping Bard so busy after his meeting.

“I’m going out for coffee with a friend.” He could see the eyebrow raise Aragorn does at the other end of the phone.

“Doesn’t sound like just coffee to me. Also, you have friends?”

“Shut it, asshole.”  Bard hangs up with a laugh.

Part of himself wishes he never even went to the first meeting, but the other part has been beside itself with a deep wish that something would come out of this, something more than friendship. He feels like a damn teenager again, clamming up so much he grabs a pack of tissues before going out the door.

The drive is a long one. The roads seem to be stretched out, pulled to impossible lengths. The spanning expanse of near naked trees lining the road are harsh marks in his mind. The rec center comes into view again, and he takes a good long breath before heading inside.

The whole atmosphere seems different than his first time there, now nearly two months ago. He felt welcome before, but now he felt like the long awaited cousin, here at last. Those there greet him with shouts and smiles, handshakes and full hearted hugs. Thranduil is the last to see him. He smiles in his own special way, eyes glimmering with an unknown humor that Bard has spent many nights trying to figure out. His alabaster skin glows against his slim cut coat, and a blood red waist coat peeks out from underneath.  

He imagines everyone can see the massive crush he’s harboring on the man, but Thranduil shows no signs.

“How’s Tilda doing?”

“She’s fine. Legolas?”

“He’s doing well.”

The silence that forms between them seems a bit awkward. Bard is quick to break it, anxious that they would go back to what they were before.

“Would you like to go out for that coffee? After the meeting, I mean. I got a friend to pick up my kids.”

Thranduil flashes a bit of teeth, and Bard isn’t sure if the pink covering his nose is from the slight chill, or something else.

“I’m sorry, but I have to pick Legolas up from school….”

His feels his shoulders slump a bit. Of course, he’d finally get the guts, and get shot down, even if it was a damn good excuse. Bard forces a disappointed grin.

“Alright, then.”

He starts in the direction of his chair, but is stopped by Thranduil’s light touch on his arm.

“You know what? I’ll see if Elrond can get him for me. I could use a day out of the house.”

Bard can’t hide his ear to ear smirk.

~

The lesson ends rather suddenly. Soon, all are saying goodbyes, and Bard lingers, to see if the whole “date” business was still on. Thranduil is speaking to Elrond very quietly, but the group leaders eyes meet Bard’s every now and again. Eventually, their conversation comes to an end, and Thranduil is striding up to him.

“Where do you want to go?”

Bard grins, heading out of the building, barely mindful of the mischievous look Elrond gives them both.

“There’s a good bakery downtown. Just follow me in your car.”

Thranduil nods before breaking off to his vehicle.

Baggins’ Bakery was a relatively new establishment in town, run by a staff of three at a time, and hidden in the corner of Smaug Avenue. It’s cozy environment and live music made it a hidden treasure in Dale, or so Bard was told. He had never actually set foot in the place, only ate their cupcakes. Arwen, Aragorn’s wife, would bring them by the shop and they were sinful. He figures it’s as good of place as any to start whatever was growing between him and Thranduil.

Strangely enough, the ride there is rather peaceful. At every red light along the way, Bard looks up to see Thranduil in his expensive car, focused on something else rather intently. It makes him laugh. When they park and get out, he’s compelled to ask.

“What had you so focused on the road?”

It’s an awkward opening conversation, ridiculously awkward, and it jars Thranduil a bit.

“I was focused on the _road_.”

Bard can’t help it, he snorts in laughter, even more so when Thranduil knits his brows in confusion.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Just realizing how odd you are.” At first Thranduil’s even more put off, but relaxes a bit, laughing a little with Bard. As they enter the shop, he speaks up, a little attitude in his tone.

“Like you have room to talk, _bow_ man.”

Bard gets black coffee, Thranduil _ridiculously_ complicated drink that makes him have sympathy for the brutish barista. The man scowls, and argues a bit on how much caramel really is enough for a good drizzle, and Bard tries to apologize to the tiny cashier.

“Oh no, it’s fine, really. Thorin can be…….difficult.”

Thorin looks ready to strangle Thranduil when they sit down, drinks in hand.

Conversation comes easy. After comparing their worst experiences in retail workers that were rude, they dive headfirst into easy, tangible stories of anything that comes to their minds. Bard discovers that Thranduil runs his own business, making candles and beauty products. He even does clothing alterations. He and Legolas had recently moved from Lorien, a bustling city with huge malls and business buildings. He explains that while he always loved it, he also had a natural instinct that kept him in the country.

At first, Thranduil was worried about his son fitting in, but the boy made fast friends, the most notable being Bain himself. Bard laughs a little at the coincidence. In return he offers pieces of himself. His love for the wilderness is shared, but he’s quick to reassure he’s never killed anything for sport. They share basic information, like favorite bands and colors, and odd quirks they have, and Bard feels like he’s known the man for ages.

Their talk is stopped, however, by the cashier from before, his nametag now visible. Bilbo gives them a warm smile, but informs them its closing time, 6:00 PM. Bard nearly flies out of his seat.

“I’ve got to go home! My kids must be starving!”

Thranduil chuckles at his blunder, but agrees that they leave.

They stand in the parking lot, smiling like idiots. He nearly kisses Thranduil, high on the fact that the entire afternoon went so well. Things like this don’t happen coincidentally.

“I’m glad we did this, Mr. Bargeman. Maybe we can really be friends now?”

Bard stops his train of thought abruptly, hoping and praying Thranduil didn’t know what he was thinking about doing. He laughs, running a hand through his hair out of nervousness.

“I’d like that. But you’ve got to stop calling me that.”

Thranduil considers this, tilting his head with a smile that lights up his whole face.

“Alright, Bard. Goodnight. See you Thursday.”

_________________________________________________

From then on, time seems to speed up. One encounter turns to two. To three. To four. There are more coffee stops, even playdates. In a little over two months, Bard has completely integrated Thranduil in his life, and he in Thranduil’s. They spend nearly everyday communicating, and his kids and Legolas are so close, he can’t help but refer to them as a _them_. He’s never been more happier, and yet…

And yet, his heart thuds painfully at the threat of this all falling apart at the seams, of this perfect dream he has been living turning to dust in his hands. He is too involved at times, and even regretfully catching himself not correcting others assumptions. They weren’t a couple- just best friends. But oh, how Bard wished. He wants the effortless grace they’ve developed to go _further_ , where instead of weaving about like they’ve memorized each others every move, other things are thrown into the mix. A firm grasp on the hip for stabilization, a slight linking of fingers, a kiss on the cheek, anything. He wants to be able to show Thranduil how much he really means, how he’s managed to worm under Bard’s skin, driving him mad with affection. It seemed impossible but a massive crush was harboring inside, and it was nearly killing him.

Although he couldn’t ease the burning ache, the frustration and the tears, Bard has the mind to keep up appearances. He’d live his whole life without telling Thranduil, to keep him as a friend.

He repeats this mantra as the ‘clan’ sits down for dinner, Thranduil at the head of the table, unknowingly right where Bard’s wife sat all those years ago. What a fool she’d call him, for managing to fall for another only to suffer in silence.

“There’ll be cotton candy, and cakes, and games!”

Tilda is babbling on about the schools newest fundraiser, a spring festival. Thranduil gives her his full attention, smiling and treating her like a full grown adult. No wonder she likes him best. Bain sits beside Legolas, the two in a heated argument over what Pokemon is the strongest. Sigrid sits next to him, head ducked and eyes focused intently on her phone.

“Who are you texting?”

He’s obviously caught her off guard. She yelps, and nearly drops the device in her mashed potatoes.

“N-no one, Da!”

He quirks a brow, and she flushes. Things between her and Fili were relatively ‘ok’. She hadn’t cried in a while, at least, not to him. Thranduil was a different story. He seemed to have a soft spot in both girls’ heart.

“It’s just Eowyn…”

“What did she say?” Thranduil pipes up from his spot, conversation put on hold while Tilda finishes her peas (and how Thranduil managed <em>that</em> Bard will never know).

“Fili is going to the festival.”

The man’s eyes light up, and Bard nearly drops his fork.

“Well then, we’ll all have to go, won’t we?”

~

Plates are stacked in the drain, and Bard and Thranduil tackle them with little grimaces. It was a tradition of sorts, something that had started the first time.

They were so much like a married couple that it was curdling Bard’s stomach.

The radio, flicked on by a soapy finger, thankfully drones out the awkward silence that festers between them. Bard takes sideways glances, baffled that this tall, lanky man could fit in so well with domesticity. His hair is swept into a bun, and his wine shirt rolled up at the sleeves. The pale expanse of skin threatens to cut Bard’s resolve, but he stays strong, even when Thranduil begins to absent mindedly hum the upbeat tune.

With their actions to music the job is done rather quickly, and Bard tries to pry his eyes away as Thranduil dries off his arms. Bard turns, but manages a step off the rug, and his foot slides. Luckily, there’s someone there to catch him.

“Bard, are you alright?”

He’s made steady by his friends pale, strong hands. He flounders for an answer, hoping he wasn't the only one so aware of the changed energy. He almost rubs his eyes-- was that a smirk? Thranduil hasn’t removed his hands, and the two are mere inches away. Ever so slowly, the tug of a cord pulls him closer, and before he knows what happening, Bard is getting closer and closer. Any minute now, Thranduil would shove him away. Except he wasn’t.

Maybe he didn’t read too far into it? Maybe months of waiting were equally as torturous for Thranduil.

“Hey, you can’t punch me!”

Just as fast as it was cast, the spell is broken. The men pull away, and head into the den to soothe their bickering children.

~

Gondor Academy’s Annual Spring Fair is a new event, started just this year, and though Bard’s primal awkwardness is threatening to show its face he goes with Thranduil, thankful the encounter from earlier seems to be forgotten. He already mentally kicked himself for the moment of weakness. It was obvious Thranduil didn’t want anything further, and he wouldn’t push it. But still, the look Thranduil gave him in the intimate moment has kept him up at night.

Regardless, the whole troop arrives at the school with a happy, carefree chagrin. The grounds are a light with pastels banners and big balloons. They’ve even managed to actually _rent_ a ferris wheel (another reason Bard is glad tuitions for his children were waved). An enticing aroma of fried sweets, charred meat, and spun sugar hits them and all at once their kids are screaming for some type of food. Thranduil takes Legolas and Bain to the grill, being manned by Coach Beorn, while Bard takes the two girls over to a baked good station. The face that greets them is familiar.

“Oh, hello Bard! Nice to see you again!”

“Hello Bilbo.”

While waiting for Thranduil to show up, Bard had developed a nice friendship with the coffee shops owner. They would exchange causal stories, and the small man never failed to keep him in good company.

Tilda gushes about a cupcake she sees, and Sigrid decides on a scone. Bard pays Bilbo, but frowns to see him without his partner.

“Where is Thorin?”

“Oh, the big lug is over there, with his nephews.”

Bilbo gestures to the fountain, and sure enough the burly man is there, looking brighter and more approachable. He laughs as his littlest nephew approaches him, and Bard recognizes the child as Kili. The tike shoots off in another direction, tearing a line into the grass as he approaches his brother. Bard can feel the little gasp Sigrid makes at seeing Fili, but he’s not so easily impressed. The kid is raggedy. His hair is a mess of thick braids and the occasional dreadlock, all barely contained in a slouchy beanie. He’s got millions of chunky bracelets on his arms, and a beaten up tank on. He narrows his eyes and sees a lot of ear cuff piercings, too much for an eighteen year old. This Fili reminds him of a younger version of himself, and it honestly scares the shit out of Bard to imagine his daughter going through all the things he put his wife through. He’s a little too late though to stop his daughters from heading over to the two boys. Even if Sigrid is being dragged by little Tilda, she looks happier.

“Fili is harmless, really. Just like Thorin. A big softie.”

Bilbo smiles up at Bard, a knowing look on his face.

Deep down, Bard supposes he knows that, but it does little to really soothe his nerves. Instead, he takes two donuts and heads over to where Thranduil sits. Even at a function like this, the man is visibly a bit odd. His jeans are very slim, and his top a bellowing loose silver that shimmers as it flows. Thranduil’s hair is up high in a bun, and big circular shades seem to cover his face. Bard imagines he looks odd himself, sporting the only clean flannel he could find in his laundry, and his hair down. He takes a spot beside Thranduil, handing him a sprinkled doughy treat. He flashes a grin.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Where are the kids?”

“Enjoying themselves.”

The spring sun beats down on Bard’s neck as he looks for his clan. There’s Bain, entranced in a heated game of tag with Legolas, Kili, Gimli, and a feisty little girl with hair the color of autumn leaves. Sigrid is deep in conversation with Fili, who looks just as enamored as she is. Tilda has discovered the arts and crafts table, manned by Aragorn’s wife, Arwen. The woman smiles at him, and waves. He’s too busy responding with a wave of his own to notice the couple approaching from behind.

“Bard, Thranduil! It’s a pleasure to see you!”

He glances up to see Gandalf and his wife, Galadriel. She is a doctor and coincidentally the same that worked on Bard’s own wife. Her eyes light up with a mirth that makes her beautiful summer dress dull. She glances curiously between Bard and Thranduil, a question forming on her pale lips, but she does not voice it. Regardless, Bard knows what she’s asking, _Does Thranduil know?_ The answer is a hefty no. Even though the two had become close, something kept preventing Bard from revealing himself as the comfort to Thranduil’s sorrow so many years before. The man rarely ever spoke of his wife, so Bard kept the secret.

“Gandalf! This is a wonderful function!” Thranduil speaks on his behalf, and Bard passes him a goofy grin. Galadriel catches his eyes again, her unspoken words so easy to hear. _Do you love him?_ He ignores it, focusing on the conversation Thranduil’s having with Gandalf over the possibility that he might sell his products at the next Spring Fair. Still, her gaze is there, at the nape of his neck, so irritatingly true that Bard misses the tail end of Gandalf’s statement. It must be important though, as it makes Thranduil flush a deep red.

“What?”

Gandalf chuckles.

“I was merely asking if you two were an, er, item.”

It makes Bard pause. Sure, it was something he wanted for a very long time, but for others to see it? With the way it was making Thranduil uncomfortable, maybe he really did feel it. They still haven’t answered Gandalf, so he answers for them.

“No. Just good friends.”

He’s said something wrong if the deadpan gaze Gandalf _and_ Galadriel send him is any indication. Thranduil’s cheery demeanor falls, and a frown tugs at the ends of his mouth.  

“That’s all well and good, I suppose. Come, my lady, I didn’t pay 1200 quid on the ferris wheel for nothing!”

They leave rather quickly, leaving Bard alone with a visibly gloomy Thranduil.

“Are you alright?”

He doesn’t expect the immediate response, the painfully forced grin that looks so wrong.

“Perfectly fine.”

Bard decides not to push it, instead turning back to his kids. Bain’s got Legolas in a headlock and the little girl is chasing Kili. Sigrid is practically shining with happiness, and Tilda is concentrating on her project. He tries to avoid looking to his right where Thranduil is slouching on the table. Bard could tell the man was hurt, but by much more than what Bard had said. He knew that lost look. Thranduil looked like he did at the hospital.

“Ada!”

It’s not Legolas, but Tilda who runs up into Thranduil’s arms. He had corrected her once, but the girl was set on calling Thranduil her father. At a time, Thranduil didn’t mind, but now it seems a fatal blow to his already crushed demeanor. Somehow, he manages a convincing grin, and picks her up.

“What is it, Tilda?”

“Made you something!”

She produces a drawing of six little people, all smiling happily. She’s labeled them, and on the right are Sigrid, Bain, and Legolas. Tilda herself is between Bard and Thranduil, and they seem to be swinging her between them. It was something they had done often, but even then Bard didn’t see the hidden meaning that everyone else seemed to see.

“It’s beautiful, Tilda, thank you.”

His voice is so lacklustre now, filled with a depressing undertone that even she can pick up on.

“What’s wrong Ada?”

Bard flinches unwillingly at the title, and Thranduil rises up quickly.

“I’m not feeling well. Bard?”

He looks up, but tries not to cry as the normal bright blues are dulled.

“Would you mind bringing Legolas home? I need to leave and rest.”

“Alright.”

He tries to smile, but knows its just a lie. He watches with a frown as Thranduil leaves the school grounds, and tries not to break down in front of Tilda.

The end of the Spring Fair can’t come soon enough. His children and Legolas have had a blast, but Bard’s day got progressively worse. He drops Legolas off at his house along the way, and wishes Thranduil was on the porch, waving and smiling bright. He isn’t though, and Bard is forced to drive home with a storm brewing in his head.

___________________________________________________

Late into the night, well past the time when Bard could have a decent reaction about _anything_ waking him up, his phone rings. It’s a loud, alarming tone of _Primadonna_ by Marina and the Diamonds. Thranduil. His heart rate sky rockets, and he drops the device with a thud on his hardwood floor. The song goes into the chorus by the time he’s actually able to answer.

“Hello? Thranduil?”

“Is this Bard?”

The voice is foreign, thick with a scottish accent, and practically screaming in his ear.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Bofur. Your friend Thranduil?”

“Yes.”

“Can you come pick him up?”

“What?”

The man on the other end barks at someone named Pippin to ‘sod off’ before continuing.

“Look mate, your friend is here pretty much comatose on my bar. The place is closing up, and I don’t know what to do with him. You were the first on his call list.”

Bard’s stomach nearly drops. Thranduil mentioned a problem with alcohol in his past, but assured it was nothing to get worried over. It was his fault the man was drooling on a wooden ledge, in pain from a stupid thing _he_ said.

“How much has he had?”

“Uhm, according to his tab? Four scotches, a shot of vodka, and a glass of _particularly_ strong Sherry.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah, you gonna come get him?”

Bard seriously thinks he’s the last person Thranduil wants to see, but he’s also positive he’s the only person who would be willing to pick him up.

“Yeah. Give me a few. Where is he?”

“Prancing Pony Pub.”

Bard hangs up with Bofur, and gets out of bed with fervor. He’s dressed in record time, and already on the phone with Aragorn as he heads to his truck.  

“You better have a damn good explanation for waking me up this early. You know its nearly three, right?!”

“I know. Can you watch the kids? I need to go pick up a friend that’s three sheets to the wind right now.”

“Who? That Thranduil guy? Why haven’t you introduced us?”

“Yes, Thranduil, and I’m not introducing you anytime soon. Will you?”

There’s a long silence that follows, but Bard knows the answer, and is already pulling out of his driveway.

“Yeah, alright. Don’t stay out too long. People aren’t fun when they’re drunk.”

“Look who’s talking, Mr. I-can-sword-fight-while-I-drink-a-whole-bottle-of-whiskey.”

“Ha ha, very funny. Go get your girlfriend.”

“He’s not my-”

Aragorn hangs up before Bard can finish. He would normally laugh, but now the jab cuts a little too deep for his liking.

As the town comes into view, Bard tries to swallow the huge lump in his throat.

____________________________________________________

The Prancing Pony is a place Bard doesn’t frequent, for obvious reasons. He enjoys a good scotch every now and again, but never saw the appeal of sharing sob stories to complete strangers.                                                       

Thranduil it seems, is different.

The man looks, for lack of a better word, like shit. His normally tame hair is a mess across the countertop, and his face is turned to the side, drool dripping off his lips. It would be funny if Bard didn’t feel so guilty.

“Oi, you Bard?”

He turns to a very cross looking man. His arms are folded tight across his chest, but the man is hardly intimidating in a colorful jumper, and braided pigtails in his hair.

“You must be Bofur.”

“Yeah, yeah. Stick the formalities and get him outta here. It’s nearly thirty minutes past closing!”

“Thank you for calling me instead of putting him out on the street.”

Bofur crosses to the other side of the bar, and Bard tries to jostle Thranduil awake, only to have the man loll over.

“Figured he was somebody important, with his fancy clothes and fancy drink choices.”

Bard takes a moment to glance around the bar. It is mostly dark and empty, but he can see a few barmaids sweeping here and there. Bofur himself is washing dishes, humming as he goes. Thranduil groans loudly, and burrows his face into his sleeve.

“Thranduil.”

He knocks on the countertop, right by Thranduil’s ear. It does the trick. The man wakes from his reverie, hissing and squinting in the dim light.

“Bard? Why are you here?”

“I need to take you home. The bar is closing. Where is Legolas?”

Thranduil tuts, and sinks his head back on the bar. He waves Bard off.

“‘s with Elrond.”

Bard’s relieved the man had enough sense to make plans for his son, but the truth of why Thranduil was getting wasted still worries him endlessly. He grips the man tight by the arm, and heaves up. Thranduil’s whine of discontent draws a chuckle from Bofur, now joined by two barmaids, watching the spectacle with enormous grins. It’s an abrasive scrub on an already sore wound. Apparently even complete strangers saw them as a couple.

“Come on, we need to go, <em>now</em>.”

He manages to get the upper hand on Thranduil and drags him out to his truck. He ignores Bofur’s whistle and shout, but it’s hard not to hear his words as they exit.

“Have fun you two!!”

~

The ride home is purely awkward. Thranduil feigns between obnoxious snoring and tense glaring. Bard prefers the former.

As they ascend the steps to the drunken man’s home, Thranduil has sobered up enough to do most of the walking, but still clings to Bard’s shoulder. They make it to Thranduil’s room, and the man climbs into bed, throwing a pillow under his head. Bard grabs the nearest trashcan, and places it within reaching range, remembering one particularly bad night with Aragorn. Sure enough, Thranduil’s heaving into it when Bard returns with ice water.

He hands the chilling glass to his friend. He doesn’t dare glance in Thranduil’s direction, and stands rigid at the side of the bed, unsure of his next move. Should he just leave?

After what feels like hours of just standing, hair on end, waiting for Thranduil to say something, Bard makes his decision. He was glad the man was okay, but he couldn’t stand the elephant in the room. Bard starts to walk out, hoping to reach the refuge of his pickup truck. True, the conversation needed to be had, but the air was so toxic and suffocating Bard was positive he would die before the first words were said. He couldn’t even look at Thranduil, let alone speak to him.

He takes two steps to the door, but he’s stopped from going further by a hand, tugging him closer. He doesn't dare let his mind wander, but then Thranduil talks, and its obvious the man wasn’t as sober as he seemed.

“Please, don’t leave me. Not like her.”

The words freeze his bones and skin, and a wave of remembrance scrubs over Bard’s soul. He’s taken back over eight years, to the horrific cries of pain Thranduil made in the hospital lobby. He remembers the haunting image Thranduil cast, beaten and crippled on the waiting room chair. He feels fresh grief for his wife again, and it's so sudden that he gasps.

Thranduil is crying, and it could be the copious amounts of alcohol in his bloodstream, but Bard is too far gone to even consider it. He sees him now as he did in the waiting room. He mimics the same actions, wrapping an arm around Thranduil’s sinking figure, trying to be strong.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Thranduil’s sobs harder for a few moments, but wills himself to pull away. Bard’s pulled from his vision. Yes, he had met the man twice, but the Thranduil in his arms was his best friend, and he owed him a shoulder to cry on.

“I know I’ve never told you. My wife, she died in a house fire. Me and Legolas were away with relatives, and she was home, cooking. They told me it was a freak accident. They told me she felt no pain, that it was good that she felt _no pain_.”

He turns to Bard, eyes alarmingly clear, but puffy and irritated.

“How was i supposed to take comfort in that? They wouldn’t even let me see her. Too much gone, too unrecognizable, they said. She was still my wife!”

Bard is speechless. He was lucky. Sure, his wife was gone before he saw her, but he still _saw_ her. Thranduil had no such luxury.

He retreats to tactics he often used with Tilda, and pulls Thranduil tight to his chest. The man is too worn to cry, but tries anyway, only resulting in dry hiccups that are no doubt painful. He smoothes the mans back, cooing until he calms down.   

He mumbles into Bard’s arm. “The only comfort I got was from a complete stranger. How pathetic is _that_??”

He tries not to show his shock. Yes, he remembered, but he never got Bard’s name. He thanks his lucky stars. His irrational fear of Thranduil discovering his identity was ridiculous, he knew, but some place in his brain was terrified. Perhaps he was scared of linking the two versions, maybe he wanted to hold on to the happy, pain free Thranduil. He knows, in some fashion, that they have to both be true, and sees the harsh truth in the way Thranduil quivers. Things weren't always gleeful, and to really act on the growing emotion in his chest, Bard had to see it, no matter how hard it was.

Thranduil eventually tears away again, heading to the bathroom.

Bard takes the moment to gather his things. He couldn’t stay here. He had overstayed, it was getting too personal, his resolve was slipping, and he was falling into a hole he couldn’t get out of.

He makes it to the doorway.

“Bard?”

Thranduil is so close, so fast that Bard almost jumps. He can’t read the man’s face, its too many emotions at once. His heart is thumping too hard, and his fingers are trembling. Whatever happens next is solely up to Thranduil, Bard’s too unsure of himself.

The man draws even nearer. His pale fingers dust Bard’s, and once more, the question of his sobriety flits around in Bard’s head.

When he kisses Bard, it’s a revelation.

He wonders if he’s dreaming. Everything is coming together so perfectly, he loves Thranduil. That’s it. He loves him endlessly, and the test of hardship proved it. All he wants is to keep Thranduil as happy as possible. Which is why he kisses back.

Thranduil moans, curling around Bard, gripping him with vice like fingers. His mouth tastes like toothpaste, and the thought that just maybe Thranduil had planned this sends a growl through his mouth. He pushes Thranduil forward, aiming for the bed. Once they hit it, he holds the man's wrists high. Bard’s talking without thought, gasping things he’s kept inside for too long, and he’s gone, too lost in the overwhelming passion that Thranduil seems to share.  

He rips off his shirt, and chucks his jeans in a random direction. Bard presses his forehead against Thranduil’s, breathing in the hot air between them.

“Tell me to stop.”

“No.”

The word sends trails of arousal through his body, and he’s growling and whispering again, mapping creamy white skin as he takes off Thranduil’s clothes. This is real, it’s okay. Thranduil wants him, and he _loves_ Thranduil.

Their bodies seem to fit together perfectly, and with Thranduil panting sweet nothings in his ear, urging him on and on, Bard doesn't think there’s a way down from the bliss.

"I've wanted this for too long."

His confession spews from his mouth in a hot mist, filling the air with too much desire. At Thranduil's sudden rigidness, he nearly pulls away, alarmed that boundaries were being trampled. However, the warm, milky liquid that pools around the tip of Thranduil's cock stops him in his tracks. He glances up at his friend, only to be greeted by a downright filthy smirk, and a wet kiss to his collarbone.

Somewhere in his mind, Bard is screaming, begging himself to stop and think of the consequences of what he and Thranduil are doing.

"I need you, Bard, please."

He's shocked to say the least, but a complete slave to Thranduil's pleas. He slicks his fingers with the leftover precome and slowly dips the rough pads into the tight ring of muscle. Thranduil is positively wrecked, keening and moaning, then gasping and whispering 'Yes' over and over again.

Bard feels supercharged when he finally pushes in, the tight feel too beautiful and perfect, better than any wet dream. He has to steady himself on Thranduil's thighs and catch his breath, lest he lose himself completely.

"Move, please!"

He does as instructed, and starts at a rough, fast pace. But it’s Thranduil underneath him, and resolve has pretty much faded away from him.

His thrusts are deep, just enough for purchase, enough to have Thranduil openly sobbing into his pillow. He's cumming quickly, giving a last thrust that throws Thranduil over the precipice again.

It retrospect, the act doesn't take as long as it feels. Bard’s soon curled up beside Thranduil with the man is behind him, a cool hand pressed on his burning stomach. The night is endless, a dark abyss that is silent and damning. Bard had finally shown love for his closest friend and come to a realization, yet he feels uneasy. The air was tainted with a bit of something Bard can't place in his worn out state.

He tries to find comfort in the press of Thranduil’s skin against his, the curve of his bare form and the tiny smile Bard can feel on his shoulder. Instead, he feels sick, as if an illness were forming with every breath he takes.

______________   

Light patterns, traced with cool, quivering fingertips, are what pull Bard from his slumber. He’s puzzled at first, but as the prior night comes back to him, he nearly gasps. He doesn’t dare move a muscle, instead tries to keep up his facade as long as possible. True, last night he felt nothing but bliss, but now? Now, in the crude light of dawn, it’s all wrong.

He slept with Thranduil. His best friend.

And instead of the shy, curious, blossoming romance he had hoped to wake up to, harsh reality and regret are in its place. The air was full of it.

He sighs, but it’s too much movement, and Thranduil senses it. He pulls away his fingers, and turns flat on the bed. Bard still refuses to move. His thoughts last night had been so brash and almost certain, but now he could really see the truth.

Thranduil’s profile is distorted with a deep set frown, showing to Bard how much he  regretted it. He didn’t see Bard as anything but a friend.  

Maybe he was dreaming it, though. Maybe the whole fiasco could be overlooked. They could go back, right?

“You need to leave.”

He fights the urge to cry. Of course he had predicted Thranduil not returning his affections, but this? This was pure torture.

He gets up, scrambles to get his things. Tears come anyway. He was so stupid, he ruined the best thing to happen to him by not thinking. Thranduil was drunk and lonely, and he was the nearest piece of meat to grab.

Bard can’t look at him now, too afraid of those ice blue eyes, but he feels them on his back. When he opens the door, he dares to speak.

“Will you at least text me later?”

He looks at Thranduil’s pile of clothes, and winces at the emotion welling up in his chest, at the memory of feeling so complete, after so long. Thranduil does not answer. Bard leaves with tears dripping down his chin.

_________________________________________________________________

The hell goes on for two weeks. After leaving Thranduil’s home, the man vanished from his life altogether. Every text went ignored, and when Bard got the gumption to try and _call_ Thranduil, he was sent to voicemail. Every timid drive by was pointless, Thranduil was never home, and even if he was, Bard couldn’t face him. Bain tells him that Legolas hasn’t been at school. He doesn’t know how to feel.

Two weeks might not seem like much, but for Bard they were eons. Still, he understands. The worst case scenario had happened, and he had taken advantage of Thranduil. He was cursed with unrequited love, and it was painful, almost identical to the pain he felt when his wife was ripped away. True, he had perfected the art of accepting it and moving on, but every desperate attempt of contact thrown away put him right at the beginning of the process. He was so close to something wonderful, but instead was shot down and thrown in the dirt. Bard was slipping, and the only things that kept him from drinking his weight in whiskey were his kids, and his job.

He doesn’t go to meetings anymore.      

It’s officially Spring Break for his kids now, and they’re all going camping with Aragorn and Arwen. He nearly backs out, but gives in at the thought of his children being disappointed.

He’s driving them all to the campsite, checking his phone, foolishly hoping for a reply to his text from earlier in the day.

_Are you and Legolas still coming camping?_

He supposes he should take the silence as a sign, but Bard was stubborn.

When they pull into the lush campsite, they are greeted by smiles and waves by not two, but three people. His kids take off for the cabin, and Bard approaches the group.

“Bard! I’d like to introduce you to my father, Elrond.”

Arwen gestures to the third member, her rosy cheeks a bit too cheery for how Bard has been feeling lately. He smiles regardless, but feels Aragorn's worried glance sent his direction.     

“Yes, we’ve met a time or two. How are you, Bard? You haven’t been to the meetings in the past weeks!”

“‘M fine. Just been feeling a bit down.”

Elrond’s smirk fades into an open, sympathetic glance. He must have heard the whole embarrassing story from Thranduil. Suddenly, Bard isn't feeling so welcome there in the circle. He wants to make a mad dash to the cabin, or car, or _somewhere_ , but Aragorn stops him with a question.  

“Is Thranduil still coming?”

Bard really regrets not informing Aragorn of the truth of his moodiness, he would punch him if his wife and father in law weren’t so close. Instead, he shakes his head. This seems to jar Elrond.

“Have you heard from him at all, Bard? He hasn’t answered any of my calls, and he hasn’t attended any meetings either. I thought he was with you.”

“Nope. Haven’t seen or heard from him.”

He has to force the words out of his mouth. He can’t meet the eyes of anyone, and makes a hasty retreat to the car to grab his things.

~

The first few days of the ‘vacation’ are anything but relaxing. All Bard can focus on is his phone, now showing the twenty-three forward calls he had made to Thranduil. He was past feeling embarrassed, and now bordered on insanity. He didn’t care if it could make things worse, he needed to talk to Thranduil.

It’s clear Aragorn and Arwen pick up on his foul mood right away, and he’s positive Sigrid knows, despite his desperate attempts to act normal while with them. He’s surprised Aragorn lets him wallow for a full three days. Usually, he’d tell him to buck up, and pry away at him until he confessed.

Instead of swimming in the lake, he’s laying on his bed, attempting to read _Ethan Frome_ , a classic from his high school days. It’s hard to focus, with super heightened nerves and trembling hands. His phone pings, and he practically tosses the novel across the room in a mad scramble to grab it. His heart races as he unlocks the screen, seeing a new message pop up.

It’s all pointless, though. The text is from Aragorn.

_You okay?_

He chooses to ignore it. Bard spares a passing glance for his favorite novel, now open and splayed across the hardwood floor. The distant screams of delight from his children stop him from screaming himself. What has he become?

A knock on his door almost sends him off the bed. He almost writes it off as another side affect of his impending insanity.

“Bard. Let me in.”

It’s Aragorn. Well, it was only a matter of time.

“Fine.” He grumbles as he opens the door, allowing his sopping wet friend inside. He stops, looking at the tossed book. Aragorn quirks a brow, but says nothing. He flops on the mattress, and looks up at Bard with a glance he knew too well.

"You aren't enjoying yourself."

"Yes I am."

“Oh, really?” Aragorn gestures to the room. “You haven’t done anything with your kids, save for helping them unpack. You barely eat, Bard!”

Bard cannot answer, it was all true. He lived for spending extra time with his children, but now shied away from it. He loved Arwen’s cooking, yet felt nauseous at the thought of it.

“Is it Thranduil?”

There wasn’t a good excuse for denying Aragorn knowledge of Thranduil. Bard supposed he had been worried that mixing Thranduil in with such a close friend meant something more, but now felt ridiculous. Aragorn liked to poke fun, yes, but the man would never do or say anything malicious.

Bard realizes he hasn’t said anything. He really didn’t want to dig into the wounds, but knew he needed help.

“Yes. He won’t talk to me. He’s angry at me.”

“What did you do?”

“I...We…” Try as he might, Bard cannot voice the truth. Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait too long.

“Don’t tell me you had sex with the guy.”

Bard freezes.

“Oh wow....you did?”

“Yes.”

“...Shit. How’d it happen?”

Bard spends the next hour and a half spilling his heart out to Aragorn. His childhood friend nods, and adds comments when they’re needed. He reluctantly goes into details about his conflicting emotions, and his hurt at being cast aside. At the end of his tale, Bard flops down on his bed with a groan.

“And that’s where we are now. He won’t even acknowledge that I’m trying to contact him. A quick ‘You ruined our friendship, now sod off’ would have been better than this.”

“Well, you’re not wrong. Do you want the truth?”

Bard nods, and sits up. Aragorn gets a bit more comfortable in his place on the bed side chair.

“After your wife passed, I was so scared you were going to collapse, and never recover from grief. Sure, you would move on, but you’d never be the same. I was wrong. This Thranduil guy comes along, and suddenly, you’re happy, and smiling _all_ the time. This is just a setback, it will work itself out, I’m sure.”

Bard tries not to burst into tears. Aragorn is right. He hasn’t felt this alive in a long time. Still, the rejection had still happened.

“No, it won’t. Aragorn, he _hates_ me.”

His words visibly affect his friend. Aragorn sighs loudly, and runs a hand up and down his face.

“Actually, he doesn’t.”

Bard glances up, eyes searching for whatever the man was talking about. “What do you mean?”

“Thranduil came by the shop, last Wednesday. Asked for you. I told him you were sick. He looked like hell.”

The news stops Bard cold. His mind races to try and come up with a good reason for Thranduil to come into the shop, but finds none. It seems their time apart was hard on both sides. He’s just a mite frustrated at Aragorn, and sends a glare his direction.

“I was going to tell you, really! Then you got sad, and well...The point is, that it’s a good sign! He’s obviously missing you just as much as you are him. Stop worrying, and join us out there.”

Aragorn gestures to the window again before standing up and leaving.

Bard sits for a while, mulling out his thoughts. Maybe Aragorn was right. Thranduil at least wanted to talk. He could try and forget, for the rest of the week.

He walks out of the cabin with a genuine smile.

____________________________

Though he managed to keep his spirits up for the remainder of Spring Break, Bard still found himself down. He stopped compulsively texting and calling Thranduil, but he still wished the man would do something to get in touch. They could talk about this. They were adults.

Instead, he has to play the waiting game.

Monday rolls around, and while its a huge pain in the ass to force his three children to get ready, he wishes they didn’t have to go back to school. When they left, all he would have to himself was his thoughts. He didn’t even have the shop-- Aragorn had covered his shift.

He has half a mind to drive to Thranduil’s house once he’s dropped of the kids, but hesitates. There would be no sense in it. He couldn’t talk to Thranduil there, in the same place where he had given in to his emotions. Instead, he turns to go downtown.

Bard gets out and walks the strip, remembering the similar walk he shared with Thranduil many months before. Back when they were still friends, and he wasn’t so far gone in his affections.

He walks past Fundin & Ri Books and Tea and gets in the crosswalk. Bard waits for the signal to go on, and looks around. He catches the attention of a rather cheerful worker in the toy shop’s window. The stranger waves, catching his peculiar beard and snagging it on a display. Bard laughs a bit, and returns the greeting.

He enters the coffee shop with a little nervousness, and he immediately tries to find Bilbo. The man is there, but is preoccupied with a young man in the corner. The boy looks about twenty, but his round nose and full cheeks tell Bard he’s related in someway to Bilbo. Their engrossed over conversation, and it’s getting pretty heated. Bard goes up to the ordering counter anyways, and sees that Thorin is manning the cash register.

He eyes Bard up and down before talking, rather bluntly. “What’ll you have?”

“Black coffee is fine.”

He gives Bard another glare, and looks behind him. “Not ordering for anybody else?”

In the moment, he considers yelling at Thorin, but instead shakes his head and smiles. “Not today.”

His drink is done in a matter of minutes, and he makes his way to the booth most secluded from the rest of the shop. Bard pulls out his phone to see one unread message, but the fervor he had a week ago isn’t there. It’s only Aragorn, updating him on the business.

_Gloin came in today, demanded to speak to you. Apparently Gimli broke that axe you sold him._

Bard doesn't reply, instead glances up, seeing Bilbo in tears and hugging his relative tight. Thorin is coming out from behind the counter. His phone blips again.

_You okay? You’re not stalking Thranduil again, are you?_

He starts to type a quick reply, but is stopped by Bilbo, now coming over to his table while wiping his eyes.

“Terribly sorry about that, Bard. Frodo over there’s returned from college for the week-- with a tattoo! I might have lost my temper a bit...What brings you here? Where’s Thranduil?”

At the mention of his friends name Bard can feel himself deflate. “He’s ah- somewhere. I don’t know. Haven’t spoke to him in weeks.”

“Are you two still friends, then?”

Bard shrugs. “Don’t really know where we stand.”

Bilbo whistles low. “That’s a shame. You two really seemed to click.”

Tears threaten to spill into Bard’s coffee. “Yeah. I really lov-liked him.”

Bilbo hears his slip, and smiles sadly. He takes the chair across from Bard, and begins to whisper, very low.

“I myself was in a similar spot with that one over there.” He nods over to Thorin, who’s currently restocking the pastries.

“What did you do?”

“Everyone kept telling me to wait, give him time, but I couldn’t keep it up. I’d say the only one who rivals his stubbornness is Thranduil. Anyways, I ended up marching myself to his front door, and didn’t leave until he came home and talked to me. This was in winter, and his _royal highness_ was at a bike expo for most of the day. Boy, did he get a surprise when he got home!”

Bilbo’s laughing, but Bard is in a bit of shock. “You risked freezing to death, for him?”

“If it meant he would finally talk to me, yes! I was going crazy not talking to him. I loved the fool too much to let him go.”

Bard sits back and considers his actions. True, he was going crazy every hour without speaking to Thranduil, but did he love him so much to put his heart on the line, at Thranduil’s mercy?

With his coffee long gone, and the clock reading near time for him to go back to the school, Bard leaves the bakery. He gives a big thanks to Bilbo, and says goodbye to Frodo and Thorin. He’s stopped halfway to his truck however, in front to the book and tea shop. A cop, one Bard had personally talked to a few times, is getting off his rather impressive Harley. What stops him however, is a much smaller man throwing himself out of the door and into the cops arms. Bard hurries past, and feels his heart tighten at the charming display, and he immediately thinks of Thranduil.

 

Maybe he _did_ love him enough.

___________________________________

When he pulls into Gondor’s parking lot, Bard keeps his eyes open for Thranduil’s car. It’s not very hard to locate. Luckily, there’s a free spot so the vehicle is right behind his own. He can see into it through his rear view mirrors, but shies away at the thought.

A voice deep in his mind chastises him. All this time finally coming to terms with his feelings and he couldn’t even _look_ at the man?

Bard sighs, skirting his eyes up to the mirror little by little. Once there, he can see Thranduil, plain as day. The man looks thinner, and his normally flowing hair was tied haphazardly in a knot on Thranduil’s head. He could blame the appearance on a busy night yes, but Bard knows it’s something more. In a split second, he can see Thranduil’s own eyes, dark purplish circles sticking out from beneath the baby blues. Bard knows what he has to do.

Act.

In a swift action, he gets out of his truck, crouches down, and approaches the other man’s car. With a huff, he opens the door, and sits down in the passengers seat.

He’s met with surprise. Thranduil jumps, and looks at Bard like he’s grown three heads.  His eyes dart to the door, then back. Bard can't help it, he smiles wide, because god he missed Thranduil. Being so close to him after their time apart was so rejuvenating. He buzzes with anxious energy, and bubbly emotions.

“What...Bard? Why are you here?”

To hear Thranduil’s voice is soothing, but its dry and cracked, and Bard realizes with a start that Thranduil had been crying.

“I need to talk to you, Thranduil. We haven’t spoken in weeks.”

The man seems to consider this, but refuses to speak further. Bard somehow keeps talking.

“Elrond told me you quit the group?”

Thranduil’s face seems to draw back, his features go cold. Bard gulps.

“Yeah. I did. I quit the club because I don’t need it anymore. I haven’t kept in touch with you because...I’m planning on moving soon. Thought I’d spare you the pain.”

He doesn’t look at Bard, instead looks out the window. Bard tries to quell his flare of anger, but he still spews out a nasty bite.

“That’s bullshit.”

His words visibly shock Thranduil. The lithe man nearly winces, and still refuses to look at Bard, which only fans the flames. He knows there's something off about this, something Thranduil refuses to see. He loses his patience, firing another question for Thranduil to answer.

“Did you really find me that _disgusting_?”

“No!” The answer is almost instant, but Thranduil still won’t look at him.

“Then why did you send me away? Did you want to have sex with me?”

“No! I m-mean yes…” Thranduil exhales, and runs a hand up and down his face. Bard feels his cheeks grow hot. Thranduil continues.

“Look, we both know it was a mistake. I was lonely, you were lonely.”

It’s a fight or flight moment for Bard. He could easily go along, mend what they could and go on. He’d be miserable, though, living a lie and loving his best friend. His best friend that still refuses to look at him directly.

“Thranduil, it wasn’t a mistake for me. I wanted you. I thought you wanted me too.”

He’s still being ignored. With a sigh, he grabs for the door handle.

“Wait!”

Bard turns in his seat, looking at his friend, and being looked at in return. Thranduil continues.

“Please, just...stay.”

“Why?”

Thranduil turns to look out the windshield, obviously gathering his wits.

“Bard, I’m overwhelmed. This wasn’t supposed to happen to us.”

Bard decides to let the air mingle around them. Thranduil was right, of course. Something so intimate and real wasn’t supposed to happen to them. Widowers like them, who loved their spouses so earnestly and wholeheartedly, gave too much and lost much more. Their hearts weren’t capable of loving any more.

Yet Bard knew that wasn’t true. He had felt love for Thranduil, and still feels love for him now. By some twist of fate, he was allowed a chance to heal. He had loved Thranduil from the hospital, and had not known. Thranduil still didn’t know, he realized.

“It was me.”

Thranduil turns.

“What?”

“It was me. I comforted you, that day at the hospital. After your wife passed.”

He looks over to his friend, and sees tears are filling his eyes.

“You?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

Bard scrubs at his eyes, now burning and threatening to leak. He tries for a nonchalant shrug, but fails miserably.

“Never remembered till now.”

Thranduil smirks a bit at that, but it’s gone so fast Bard questions if his eyes were playing tricks. The blonde croaks out his next words.

“I’m terrified, Bard. My wife was my whole world. After that night, I felt so guilty.”

They sit in solitude, the air a bit lighter, but the unspoken words still weighing them down. Bard folds, and shifts so he can see all of Thranduil.

“It terrifies me too you know. This-This _thing_ It’s not supposed to happen twice. Our wives were such big parts of our own universes, we could never imagine one without them in it. Until now.”

“Bard.” Thranduil is on the verge of tears again.

The tension is ridiculously tight, but Bard has the power to end it. All he has to do is speak what's been plaguing him for months, put his heart on the line, and hope that Thranduil has mercy.

“I _love_ you. God, I’ve loved you for so long and haven’t even _realized_ it! _You’re_ my world now, Thranduil. I don’t want to spend my life without you.”

Bard’s trembling with nerves, his heart is racing.

He looks up, but is stopped by the feeling of lips on his own. Thranduil’s kissing him, and just that fact sends a low growl from his lips. He kisses back, tears mingle between them, but its okay. Everything’s okay, because Thranduil wants him back.

The air seems to vanish in seconds, and Thranduil is pulling away, genuinely laughing and smiling.

“I think my universe could use a new center.”

Bard claims his lips again, tracing the curve of Thranduil’s smile with his tongue. The passion is burning deep in his soul, his happiness is bursting.

Then there’s a knock on the back door.

The two tear apart, and turn to see a rather grumpy Legolas pouting, bookbag slung across his shoulder. Thranduil chuckles, and with the spell broken, Bard gets out of the car.

Legolas takes one look at him before opening his door, asking Thranduil a question rather loudly.

“Does this mean I can talk to Bain again, Ada?”

Bard ducks his head down to see Thranduil’s reaction. The man sputters, and blushes.

“Yes, I suppose so. Goodbye Bard.” He turns to look at Bard, winking and smiling wide.

By the time Bard walks away from the vehicle, he’s confronted with a posse of his own little ones, all giving him critical looks, crossing their arms, but barely containing their laughter. He points a finger, and puts on a stern face.

“Not a word.”

They erupt into giggles, tugging and pulling at his flannel shirt in a teasing manner. They all pile into the car.

Before even leaving the parking lot, Bard’s phone goes off and for the first time in weeks it’s not Aragorn.

_Will you come to the coffee shop tonight? Bring the kids._

____________________________________________________

Bard arrives to Baggin’s Bakery for the second time that day, but in considerably higher spirits. His clothing is a little fancier, a black cardigan he’s pretty sure he doesn’t remember buying, a charcoal tee, and regular jeans. After retelling the basic story to his eager kids, he had counted down the hours and now, with the door in front of him, Bard’s nerves make a nasty return. He shouldn’t have confessed his feelings so freely, he was taking things too fast.

He doesn't have much time to dwell on the thought though, as soon as he’s in the bakery he’s struck by just how many people are packed in. People he knows, too. Sigrid had informed him rather bashfully that Fili was playing tonight, and a good amount of his family was expected to come. There was Gloin, with his son and wife, and the cop and his little librarian. Over at the counter was Bofur, too busy speaking to the man Bard saw in the window. He waves hello to Bilbo and Thorin, together behind the counter. Bilbo makes a suggestive face, and just a finger in the direction of the booth in the corner.

Thranduil is currently nursing a frappuccino, his hair now back to normal and his shimmering top gleaming in the light. Bard steps to him, slipping into the seat beside the other and flashing his best cheeky grin. Thranduil laughs in delight.

The kids join Legolas and the other children, and the lights begin to dim. Bard settles down as a nervous Fili takes the makeshift stage. He spots Dis, who has close hands on Kili and the red haired girl from the Spring Festival. When Fili starts to sing, Thranduil tugs on Bards hand, placing a folded cup sleeve in it. Bard quirks a brow, and flips it over.

On it are four little words, scribbled in beautiful swoops and loops.

_I love you too._

Bard grabs Thranduil's hand and presses a chaste kiss to his knuckles. The lyrics of the song wash over them, pulling their spirits high.

 

_I would take nothing for me,_

_Nothing at all_

_Knowing I could go on,_

_Just to have called you my lover,_

_Who would have known?_

_Oh, missing everything_

_Our hands were tied together_

_It was not quite happiness_

_Just love_

He catches the young man’s wink he send Sigrid’s way, but smiles at it, feeling Thranduil tug at his fingers. For once, he wasn’t worried about the future. For once, everything was perfect.  

~FIN~

 

 

Here are the wonderful art pieces!

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Again, thank you all so so much for taking the time to read this! If you have any comments, feel free to leave them below, and I'm totally up for questions concerning the little universe! I'm considering adding on stories developing the relationships of Lindir/Elrond, Bofur/Nori, and Dwalin/Ori, but we'll have to see what my schedule allows :)
> 
> The song Fili sings (and the inspiration for the title) is [Not Quite Happiness](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zH03AXIYcAs).
> 
> I've also made a 'soundtrack' for this story, easily found [here](http://8tracks.com/hannibalsketches/not-quite-happiness).


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